


Truth

by sadIittlenerdking



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Angst, Depression, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and Angst, Heavy Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Truth Serum, post mike, quentin recognizes Eliots in pain and actually does something
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-19
Updated: 2017-04-19
Packaged: 2018-10-21 00:56:23
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,795
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10674366
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sadIittlenerdking/pseuds/sadIittlenerdking
Summary: Quentin’s ashamed to admit it takes him a week to realize something's wrong. Eliot’s barely conscious, lying on the couch, mumbling about some lizard man watching him, when Quentin walks into the cottage. He doesn’t think anything of it for a moment, because this is Eliot, and Eliot likes his drugs and copious amounts of booze. Except, on closer examination, Quentin can see the tear tracks that Eliot lazily swiped away, and it’s enough to make it click in his head.Nausea comes crushing through him in an intensive wave, and Quentin barely makes it to the bathroom before the bile forces  itself out of him.He sits there for a bit, leaned over the toilet. He knows Eliot won’t talk to him, because he's more focused on ignoring his feelings and hiding them beneath the drugs and alcohol. There’s one option, Quentin thinks, face scrunching up painfully as he looks up at the ceiling, counting down from three in his head to see if there are literally any other options;





	Truth

**Author's Note:**

> Written as a Drabble response on Tumblr and it kind of formed a life of its own.

Quentin’s ashamed to admit it takes him a week to realize something's wrong. Eliot’s barely conscious, lying on the couch, mumbling about some lizard man watching him, when Quentin walks into the cottage. He doesn’t think anything of it for a moment, because this is Eliot, and Eliot likes his drugs and copious amounts of booze. Except, on closer examination, Quentin can see the tear tracks that Eliot lazily swiped away, and it’s enough to make it click in his head. 

Nausea crashes through him in an intense wave, and Quentin barely makes it to the bathroom before the bile forces itself out of him.

He sits there for a bit, leaned over the toilet. He knows Eliot won’t talk to him, because more focused on ignoring his feelings and hiding them beneath the drugs and alcohol. There’s one option, Quentin thinks, face scrunching up painfully as he looks up at the ceiling, counting down from three in his head to see if there are literally any other options;

3, Let him kill himself because he’s shoving his feelings down so far - definitely not an option, ever.

2, Try to force him to talk - that won’t happen, Eliot isn’t the talk about his feelings kind of person, not willingly, at least.

1, force Margo to talk to him? No, because she’s as inept at the whole dealing with your feelings thing as Eliot is.

There. He took the time to think about it, and dosing Eliot with a sobering drink and truth serum is the only viable solution. Quentin picks himself up off the floor, flushes the toilet, washes his out his mouth and heads to the kitchen to make Eliot Talk. 

(He kind of feels like a spy.) 

*

Two hours later, Eliot hasn’t moved, but he is gazing wide eyed at the ceiling. Quentin’s kneeled next to him, the empty coffee cup set carefully on the rug. He reaches up and rubs Eliot’s shoulder softly, “How are you feeling?” 

“Like shit,” Eliot mutters, voice hoarse, as he turns on his side and looks directly at Quentin. “You ruined my buzz.” 

Quentin nodded. “I did.” 

Eliot makes a face, waving a hand lazily through the air, “And you would do that because…?” 

“I wanted to talk to you and you weren’t making much sense.” Quentin shrugs, and moves so he’s sitting alongside the couch, facing Eliot. His hand slides down until it’s resting on Eliot’s wrist, just enough pressure to feel his pulse. “How are you, really?” 

Eliot watches him for a moment, letting his eyes fall to where Quentin’s hand is on his wrist. “Your hands are remarkably soft, Q,” he murmurs softly, as he turns his hand so his palm faces upwards, his fingers loop around Quentin’s wrist as well. “’s one of my favorite things about you.” He smiles softly, but his eyes are watering when he looks back up at Quentin. 

“You didn’t answer my question.” 

Eliot blinks at him. “No.” He whispers, finally, breaking eye contact as he shakes his head. "I didn't." The words lack his usual blasé attitude, and it feels like some bodies played a particularly vicious round of whack-a-mole with Quentins guts. 

“Why not?” 

His lower lip trembles. “Because I don’t want to.” 

Quentin shrugs, leaning forward, and tightening his grip softly around Eliot’s wrist. “Why are you doing this to yourself Eliot? What’s wrong?” Eliot squeezes Quentin’s wrist, reaching over and bring his free hand to rest atop of Quentin’s, but he doesn’t reply. “Eliot. What’s wrong?” 

Eliot’s eyes are misty, filled with tears, and his jaw is trembling as he finally looks up and makes eyes contact with Quentin. “Don’t make me do this, Q,” He whispers, shuffling closer to him and gripping onto his hand like his life depends on it. Quentin can feel his hands shaking. “How - how could you -,” 

Shit. 

Quentin hadn't thought about him actually realizing he'd drugged him. 

“I had to,” Quentin says, quiet as he leans even closer until his chin is a breath away from their hands. He brings his free hand up and places it on top of Eliot’s. “You weren’t talking to us, if I just ignored it . . . I don’t want you to die, Eliot.” 

“But,” and the sound that rushes out of him is part sob part argument, and the look on his face says he wants to do anything but say this, and his eyes go back up to the ceiling again, “I deserve to.” The rest of the sentence comes bustling out of him in the same half sob, that sounds like it’s something he’s wanted to say, a secret that he’s kept under lock and key, that’s finally, finally found it’s way out. Eliot turns back over onto his back, but he keeps his hands firmly in Quentin’s as his body trembles and he breathes in deep guttural breaths. And he says it again, “I deserve to die!” His voice cracks, and Quentins not sure if it's the truth serum making him do it, or if it's just getting all of this off his chest, and telling someone, but suddenly, Eliots sobbing, openly and with no inhibition. 

Quentin sits up completely, pulls Eliot’s head against his chest and pulls one of his hands away to run it through Eliot’s curls. He can feel Eliot’s tears seeping through his shirt, but he ignores it as he says, choked up and adamant, “You,” He says, clear and loud, “Do not deserve to die. You don’t deserve to die, Eliot.” He pulls away and looks down at him, “Do you hear me?” When Eliot doesn’t say anything, he pulls gently on his hair and waits until their eyes meet. When they do, Eliot’s lack the usual coldness he’s so used to. “You are a good person, Eliot. You -,” He pauses, his thumb running along the edges of Eliot’s hair line as he wipes at the sweat there, “You are the best,” He lets his eyes land back on Eliot’s, “The best person I know. Do you understand me?” 

“I killed Mike,” Eliot whispers with a shake of his head. “I killed him, and I didn’t - he was innocent. He was possessed and I - I -,” He stops, mouth open as if he can’t get the words out. His eyes travel back to the ceiling, “He didn’t know,” He whispers, “When we - When I, I practically raped -,” 

“No!” Quentin says, the word more forceful than he knew he was even capable of being. “You didn’t know. You were innocent, you are innocent, Eliot.” 

Eliot’s jaw clenches. “But it’s true.” 

And Quentin, lost for words climbs to his feet and shuffles them around until he’s sitting and Eliot’s pressed up against him, his face buried in Quentin’s chest, hands wrapped around his waist. They sit there for a few long moments, the only sound is Eliot’s wracking sobs into Quentin’s shirt. Quentin’s heart is racing as he holds him. 

They’d all just been talking and laughing and planning, and this entire time Eliot had been falling apart right in front of them, and none of them had the slightest idea how bad it is. None of them even thought to check on him after what happened. 

Quentin feels the nausea sweep through him again but he pushes past and leans forward, sets his chin atop Eliot’s head and says, "Eliot,” He moves his arms until they’re wrapped around Eliot in a tight hug, holds him as firm and sure as he can, “I’m not telling you it gets better, because it doesn’t. Remember?” Eliot nods into his chest. “What did you tell me, that day? When mine and Alice’s spell hurt so many people?” 

Eliot doesn’t respond, so Quentin pulls away just enough to look at him. “What did you say, Eliot?” 

He takes a shaky breath, “You - you are not alone.” 

Quentin nods, slow. “I’m not,” He whispers, leaning down, and moving one hand to rest it on Eliot’s chest, “And neither are you. You’re not alone. I’m here, and I’m not going anywhere, okay? You may not want to talk, but you do not get to disappear into yourself.” 

“I have to.” 

“No, you don’t. You are the strongest person I know, and you are allowed to hurt, and you’re allowed to feel the way you’re feeling.” He raises his eyebrows slightly as he brings his other hand around and grabs his cheeks, and holds him delicately, so they can’t look away from one another. “But you don’t get to push me away because you don’t know how to deal. I know what this is like. I am one of the few people who knows this emptiness and pain inside of you, Eliot. I can be there for you. I can be here for you, like this, or however the fuck you need me to be, because you’re my friend. And you matter to me. Which is why,” He pulls away and moves Eliot so he’s sitting up as well. "You’re not going to do this anymore.” 

“Get unwittingly drugged?” 

A small smile dances on their lips for a moment before Quentin shakes his head. “No,” He whispers, “You’re not going to drown yourself. If you find yourself falling, you fucking call out for help.” 

“I don’t know how.” And even he looks surprised by the confession. 

Quentin shrugs, and makes a face with widened eyes and a wrinkled nose, “Good thing you have a friend who’s clinically depressed and can teach you, then.”

Eliot stares at him for a moment, and the tears track have mostly dried, they’re just crusty stains down his cheeks, now. Quentin reaches up and wipes them away as Eliot says, “I love you.” Then he frowns, “No. I love you.” He huffs, his brows furrowed as he glares half heartedly, and more Eliot like than any expression he’s made in days. “That’s not what I want to say.” 

Quentin laughs, and pulls Eliot back into his chest, resting his chin atop Eliot’s head. “No, but it’s the truth.” Eliot’s breath hitches, almost like he’s realizing it a bit himself in the moment, and Quentin smiles into his hair, “Don’t worry, El. I love you too.” 

And they’re quiet for a while, sitting on the couch, at ease with just the warmth of each other.

And then Eliot has to go and ruin it. 

“You realize I’m going to kick your ass for dosing me with a truth serum, right?” He asks, nearly an hour later. 

Quentin shrugs, “I don’t care. So long as you’re alive, Eliot.” 

Eliot moves like he’s going to get up, but stops midway and curls back up against Quentin’s chest, weaving his arms around him. 

Quentin’s halfway asleep when he hears a faint, “Thanks, Q.”


End file.
